Blindfold of Justice

By Minka Scott-Friedman

In the late forties and early fifties, Beverly Hills was a small, conservative community with safe, tree lined streets, and was famous for movie stars and one lawyer - the fabled Jerry Geisler. This book is a fictionalized, but authentic, inside view of the workings of his office, and his world, seen through the eyes of his associate counsel. Everything is there, including allies and adversaries in the L.A.P.D., the Press, and the L.A. County District Attorneys office.

In those days, criminal cases were defended on the merits, not by invoking intellectually dishonest technicalities concerning police procedure. It was an honest, rockem, sockem, intellectual battle, and may the smartest, or luckiest, lawyer win.

Here we have a rising star in a prestigious Beverly Hills law firm defending a wealthy playboy accused of the brutal slaying of his estranged wife. His adversary is a brilliant young prosecutor who wants the D.A.s job, and will stop at nothing to get it.

The resolution of this conflict involves forensic pathology, psychology, incest, drugs, and lots of dirty tricks by the police and both attorneys. To top it all off, the final courtroom scene takes place in a unique and unexpected venue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 26, 2002
• ISBN: 9780759689756

Minka Scott-Friedman

Eugene Kenway and his wife Minka Scott-Friedman attended college together at the University of California at Berkeley in the fifties. He majored in Geology, and she in Anthropology and English. Mr. Kenway became an exploration geologist for an oil company, a civil engineer for the FAA, and ultimately a lawyer who practiced in Beverly Hills for many years. Mr. Kenway, who now lives in the Palm Springs area, still takes the occasional case, and is presently at work on another novel to be called Worthiest of Blood. Blindfold of Justice is a truly gripping account of the dirty tricks used by the police, and by high-powered attorneys, as well as a suspense novel and murder mystery that is solved in the courtroom. Today’s police and attorneys can learn much from this book.

Book preview

Blindfold of Justice

A Novel

By

Minka Scott-Friedman

with

Eugene Kenway

© 2000, 2002 by Minka Scott-Friedman with Eugene Kenway.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 0-7596-8975-X (e-book)

ISBN: 0-7596-8976-8 (Paperback)

ISBN: 0-7596-8977-6 (Hardcover)

ISBN13: 978-0-7596-8975-6 (ebook)

1stBooks-rev. 10/31/02

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

TO MINKA,

The truest of the true. The bravest of the brave.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Speaking for myself, and for my brilliant and classy wife Minka, who did not live to see this book in print, we would like to express our gratitude to the special people who contributed to it, and made it possible. First and foremost, credit belongs to Rex Eagan, the outstanding trial attorney who was the model for Sandy Flaherty, and who, by his life and times, and generous relating of same, helped us create this book.

Secondly, my thanks to Lt. Raymond Griffith, and Detective Jeff Letterman, both of the Cathedral City Police Department, who straightened me out on the effects of drugs on addicts.

Thirdly, our thanks to those honorable leaders of the legal profession in Southern California who established a tradition of dedication to their clients by defending them on the merits, not by invoking intellectually dishonest technicalities concerning police behavior. These men include Stephen White, later Senator White; Earl Rogers, so lovingly written about by his daughter Adela Rogers St. John; Jerry Giesler, who apprenticed in the Rogers law office, Rex Eagan, who apprenticed in the Giesler law office, and all of the attorneys everywhere who strive for honesty, ethics and the highest ideals in their practice of the law, which is primarily a calling, and only secondarily a commercial enterprise, despite the U.S. Supreme Court’s labored five to four decision suggesting otherwise.*

CHAPTER 1

The wail of the tortured siren cut sharply contrapuntal to the insistent jukebox beat. The sound, undiminished in its sharp clarity, pierced the auditory senses of the plump male on the balcony who was leaning his chair against the outside wall of the Malibu Lounge, a watering hole of the country club variety.

He leaned with practiced indolence against this haven from reality, ignoring the discordant babble of the alcoholically secure multitude gathered inside for mutual reassurance. His fashionably dressed form, and fashionably dissipated face attested to his belonging there.

His dissipation was evidenced by the heavy-lidded, natural appearing boredom with which his permanently pink-rimed blue eyes blankly surveyed the vermilion sunset that rippled over the smooth waves of the nearby Pacific ocean. His name was Hartley Swerdlow, and he was what he appeared to be, a non-contributing member of the human race.

Only child of a deceased but wealthy father, his sole function in living was to unconsciously bolster the economy by reintroducing his substantial trust income into the daily ebb and flow of commerce; primarily the commerce in expensive cars, clothes and alcoholic beverages. The image of total uselessness which he presented to the world was not an affectation, but was Hartley.

As Hartley watched the last rays of the sunset color a crimson and darkening sea, he found himself in the unfamiliar condition of being slightly conscious stricken. The witch-like wail of the ambulance had forcibly recalled the unscheduled departure of the man whom Hartley admired and respected above all others.

What made him uneasy was the realization that he had been negligent in not guarding against this unwise departure which, as he knew from experience, was an integral part of his friend’s behavior when intoxicated.

Hartley had first met Sanford Flaherty some three years ago in connection with a will contest filed by one of his father’s many female admirers. The suit was against the estate and its three principal beneficiaries; himself, his uncle Peter Swerdlow, and his aunt Mary Swerdlow. The between-the-sheets case had been referred to Harold Lee, the senior partner in the law firm where Sandy was the new junior partner.

Harold Lee was recognized as the premier trial attorney in the western United States, a reputation acquired principally in the defense of criminal cases against Hollywood celebrities. Well into his sixties at the time, and anxious to begin a calmer pace of existence, Harold Lee had turned the Swerdlow case over to his new junior law partner who was in his thirties, and was rapidly becoming Lee’s good right arm.

After a trial made difficult by the inebriated nature of the testimony both Hartley and his uncle provided, Sandy had been successful in safeguarding the family fortune, and preserving the right of Hartley and his relatives to dissipate in the manner to which they had become accustomed.

During the trial, he and Sandy had become close friends, or so Hartley hoped. Drawn together by a need for escapism, their relationship was further secured by rivers of mutually consumed alcohol. In Sandy, Hartley had found the image of the man he wanted to be; an alcoholically cynical escapist who retained a sense of responsibility, and was possessed of still untapped resources of professional skill, endowing him with self-assured poise and self-respect.

In Hartley, Sandy had found the ideal companion for his drinking bouts in which he indulged with increasing frequency. Hartley was also an admiring foil for Sandy’s forensic displays, and an excellent host-nurse whose hospitality knew no bounds.

It was Hartley’s company and his lavishly furnished Malibu beach condominium that Sandy sought after a difficult trial. Initially, Sandy’s visits entailed a drunken one night stand, followed by his guilt ridden, hangover inspired rush home to the wife and children whom he had sequestered in a mountain top home overlooking the San Fernando Valley.

Gradually, Sandy’s flirtation with alcohol consumption became the most important love affair in his life; and then, like Hartley, he drank only to see oblivion in the bottom of the empty bottle. His visits now lasted three or four days.

These were enjoyable times for Hartley, for although he was sometimes troubled by the wild Irish antics of Sandy when drunk, Sandy’s fame and exuberant personality ensured them instant recognition and welcome in the better bars and private parties.

Hartley had always been admitted to these places, but never before welcomed, despite his openhanded display of wealth.

In a sense, it was an unrecognized feeling of gratitude that both caused and enabled Hartley to assume the role of watchdog for Sandy during his visits. Thus, Hartley’s rare attack of conscience.

A herald of Sandy’s unannounced visit had come that afternoon in the form of headlines in the evening paper proclaiming the acquittal of Jake Shoey, affectionately dubbed the Encino ax killer by the sensational daily press. Hartley’s knowledge that Sandy was defense counsel, and would have the emotional letdown that always accompanies the finish of a criminal trial, regardless of the verdict, enabled Hartley to greet Sandy with a pitcher of fresh martinis. Two more pitchers had the effect of erasing most of the deeply etched lines of strain and fatigue on Sandy’s face.

An hour later, multicolored rays of the late afternoon sun struck Hartley’s covered balcony overlooking the sea, backlighted the two of them as they left the front door, and illuminated the roadway for Sandy’s bright red sports car as it raced all the way to the Malibu Lounge bar, and the balcony now occupied by Hartley, and the fading echoes of the screaming siren.

After a few drinks at the lounge, Hartley had left Sandy to telephone the Beach Club for dinner reservations, and upon his return had found Sandy’s empty chair and glass. A check of the parking lot had confirmed Sandy’s departure, while a rapid mental calculation of the number of drinks consumed by the two gave final proof to Hartley that his sense of uneasiness was fully justified.

CHAPTER 2

Exercising infinite patience and fingertip control, the short, pudgy figure tightened the perfect knot of his bow tie, and thoughtfully surveyed his reflection in the full length mirror hanging by his closet door. Addicted to finely tailored clothes, Harold Lee was trying to ignore the fact that bow ties make a short, stocky figure appear dumpy no matter how well dressed.

Well? he asked belligerently of the dour-faced man slumped in a chair across the room.

The spitting image of Fatty Arbuckle, growled Saul Panza, Lee’s closest friend and constant companion since the tragic death of his lovely wife some fifteen years ago. Now can we go to dinner? I’m rapidly losing my appetite.

Saul, the consumptively thin, sharp-faced Jack of all trades shared the large, expensive home that Lee had built for the one love of his childless life, just off Sunset Boulevard in Beverly Hills.

Saul refused to allow the housekeeper and her husband to expand their responsibilities beyond care of the house and its sprawling grounds, reserving to himself the pleasurable task of caring for Lee’s every need from whipping boy to bodyguard. There was hardly a moment, day of night, that Saul was not within bellowing distance. He had no other occupation or avocation.

However, Saul was kept from monopolizing Lee’s attention by Sandy Flaherty, upon whom Lee lavished all of his frustrated parental instincts, and professional guidance. That Flaherty had proven himself in the legal profession was a credit to Lee’s teaching, and Sandy’s ability, as Saul honestly but grudgingly admitted.

That Flaherty was slowly breaking Lee’s already shattered heart through his ever more frequent and violent binges was equally unquestionable, and thus it was that Saul’s natural jealousy had evolved into a deep-seated hate.

Have you heard from Junior yet? Saul casually inquired as Lee struggled his way into his coat.

The frown that flashed its way across Lee’s broad expanse of forehead answered the question before he mumbled, No, not yet—he’s probably celebrating a bit.

Saul’s snort spoke chapter and verse of his feelings toward his younger rival.

After all, continued Lee, it was a long, tough trial and I imagine he’s pretty chewed up. You remember the binges I used to go on after one of those?

That was over twenty years ago, Saul replied, shifting position in his chair to get a better view of the setting sun touching the tops of the pine trees marking the boundary of Lee’s broad back yard. And, he continued, you haven’t touched the stuff for almost 15 years—. He paused, embarrassed, as they both thought of the beautiful wraith whose presence permeated their home.

Lee’s eyes began to tear, and he turned away.

I know you don’t like to hear it, Saul went on doggedly, but the word’s out about your boy. He’s not a celebrator, he’s a lush. Downstairs, they just wait for the day he shows up in court tight. Years ago, attorneys like Earl Rogers could get away with it, but not now. I tell you Hal, if you want to save this kid, you better let me talk to him, or better yet, you talk to him.

Lee concentrated on the struggle to see over his expanding waistline, and get his feet into loafers; he had already surrendered in the battle to lace up regular shoes.

He’ll straighten out Saul. Crimmy, his strongest epithet, you can’t name a criminal defense attorney who hasn’t had a bottle problem at one time or another.

And, interrupted Saul, you can’t name me five, not counting yourself, who ever licked it.

Maybe you’re right, said Lee doubtfully, casting one final glance at his mirrored reflection. I’ll think about it.

Just don’t wait too long, replied Saul earnestly, or he’ll take your heart with him as he slides down the drain. Well, let’s go to eat. Where- The ringing of Lee’s private telephone interrupted their nightly debate over where to eat.

Pride in the claim that he was available to anyone who needed him, caused Lee to keep his home phone listed in the telephone directory, and these calls were cleared through either Saul or the butler. But additionally, Lee had a private phone in his bedroom, with a number known to a very few, the ring of which often signaled something important. Feeling the familiar surge of excitement, Saul reached the phone by the second ring, and as Lee watched with a quizzical expression, answered it.

After a few words with the caller, Saul handed the phone to Lee. Pat Fanning, he said, sounds upset."

Pat Fanning was the presiding dean of the press corps covering the crime beat from the press room on the District Attorney’s floor of the Hall of Justice in downtown Los Angeles. He and Harold Lee had started their respective careers at about the same time, and through the exchange of mutual favors had become fast friends; a friendship that had matured and deepened over the years. Very little happened in the crazy quilt of Los Angeles that did not come to the attention of Pat Fanning before anyone else.

Pat? said Lee, how the dickens are you? Haven’t seen you in weeks. If you want a comment on Flaherty’s victory, use the customary justice was served. How’s the—

Pat Fanning’s whiskey roughened voice cut through the amenities. Hal, get ready for a shock. Fanning paused for an instant, then continued, ‘Tour boy rode his sports car over a cliff in Malibu Canyon. He was thrown out halfway down, and by some miracle, is still alive.

One of our reporters was riding in a traffic helicopter and saw the car explode. The pilot radioed the nearby juvenile forestry camp, and then set the chopper down next to the road. They found Sandy about 200 feet down, and pretty well busted up. The reporter recognized him, and called me as soon as he could. They took the kid to Malibu for emergency treatment, and— Pat paused, if it looks like he’ll make it, they’ll take him to St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica. Hearing the labored breathing on the other end of the line, he paused again, and said in a subdued voice, I’m sorry Hal.

In the twilight tinted bedroom, the suddenly ashen change in Lee’s complexion brought Saul to his side. Lee breathed deeply, struggling to regain his emotional balance, and waved Saul away.

How badly is he hurt? Lee asked in a steady voice.

Hold on Hal, and I’ll call Malibu on another line.

Lee cupped his hand over the mouthpiece, and said over his shoulder to Saul, Get Kerry Flaherty on the other phone, and hold her until I finish with Pat. Don’t tell her anything, just that I want to talk to her. Got it?

Saul nodded briefly, and hurried back to the extension phone on the other side of the bed. Lee drummed his fingers impatiently on the instrument in his hand, eyes squinted tightly in prayer.

Pat Fanning’s staccato cut into his consciousness. He’s still alive; too early to tell if he’ll make it; skull fracture, internal bleeding. They’re taking him to St. John’s—anything I can do?

Don’t know of anything Pat. I’m on my way to St. John’s. I appreciate your calling; thanks again. Tired, and suddenly old, he hung up.

Recognizing from the silence that both Saul and Kerry were waiting, he collected his thoughts and spoke into the other phone. Kerry? its Harold Lee. I’ve just learned that Sandy has been injured in an automobile accident. How badly I don’t know, but he was taken to St. John’s Hospital. I’m going there now, and I thought— he paused, his insides shrinking with anticipation at the feminine reaction he expected. He was vastly relieved, and a little disappointed when Kerry’s calmly anxious inquiry caused him to relate exactly what Fanning had told him. And that’s all I know, he concluded. Can we pick you up?

Saul could not hear the answer, but noticing the relieved expression on Lee’s face, he knew there would be no delay in their journey to Santa Monica, and started toward the door to bring the car around. Lee caught up with him before he reached the garage and mumbled, She took it well—getting a baby sitter—meet us at the hospital, let’s go.

The two dove into the long Cadillac, and with Saul at his reckless best, they raced through Beverly Hills toward Santa Monica, the powerful car slicing through the Pacific ocean breeze that danced among the palm fronds lining Beverly Drive.

If man had ever designed a more depressing sight than a hospital at night, thought Saul, he had yet to see it. The building, with its lights shining bleakly skyward like a stylized prayer, affected Lee too, and increased the anxiety that twisted his insides as he strode to the information desk.

Scarcely aware of Saul’s presence, Lee followed the directions given him, and presently seated himself in the fifth floor waiting room. The ward nurse informed them that Mr. Flaherty was in surgery, and promised to relay any information she should receive as to his condition.

In answer to Lee’s inquiry about the doctor, she told him the surgical team working on Mr. Flaherty was the best to be had, told them how to reach the coffee shop, and retreated to her desk at the end of the hall.

A few minutes later, Kerry Flaherty emerged from the elevator opposite the waiting room, a pathetically small figure in the empty, antiseptic hallway. Barely five feet tall, she possessed a pixie-like beauty to which motherhood had added an aura of wistful maturity.

Lee got up and Kerry hurried toward him. It took but a few moments for Lee to tell her all he knew, and the two of them settled down to wait. Of the three, only Saul watched the large wall clock, and the spasmodic jump of the minute hand. To Lee and Kerry, each occupied with his and her own thoughts, time had no significance, as anxiety drugged them with self-induced lethargy. Only Saul realized how slowly four hours can pass, and when he saw two green smocked figures approaching he cared very little what message they bore, as long as it was one that would put an end to this midnight vigil, of which he was an unwilling and highly caffeinated participant.

It was a polite cough, rather than any noise of crepe-soled shoes, that brought both Lee and Kerry to their feet. After brief introductions, the elder of the two surgeons, Dr. Cullen, quietly told them of Sandy’s condition.

We think he is out of danger now. His ribs have been repaired, and the internal injuries caused by their fracture were not as serious as we had originally feared. The facial lacerations will leave no permanent scars. Outside of minor sprains and bruises, this brings us to our main problem, the depressed skull fracture in the right temporal area. He paused and lighted a cigarette. The fracture itself presents no particular problem, he stated, glancing at Lee and

Kerry, but, he continued, until Mr. Flaherty regains consciousness, we are unable to tell if he suffered any injury to the brain. Most likely, he hastened to add, noticing the fear wash over the faces of his listeners, the cranial bleeding was negligible, and, although the blow must have been very severe, it was in a relatively safe location. In any event, he concluded, we’ll know more tomorrow. He is in the recovery room now, and while the anesthetic will wear off in an hour or two, it is impossible to know when he will regain consciousness. You, he said turning to Kerry, can stay here tonight, but I don’t think there will be any change before late morning.

Much to Saul’s relief, Lee agreed with the doctor, and the added weight of his opinion was sufficient to send Kerry home with the promise of a telephone call in the morning.

CHAPTER 3

It was late the following morning before Flaherty began to drift surfaceward from the depths of unconsciousness. He floated carelessly just under the surface of complete awareness. He had vague impressions of voices, whose hushed tones bespoke his presence in a hospital or funeral home, but like the first rolling wave of intoxication, he felt too good to care which. With what little will remained to him, and gently so as not to disturb the bliss encasing him, he fumbled in his memory for solid recollections. The scene was Malibu, the sudden irresistible wave of self-disgust, and the compulsive attempt at restitution resulting in his headlong flight up Malibu Canyon toward home. His memory rode beside him, and his eyes flew open as he knew again that he had deliberately swung the wheel of the little sports car toward the fragile retaining rail to seek the false promise of peace through death.

Kerry’s soothing, reassuring voice and the pressure of her small hands upon his arm brought him slowly back to calmness.

A disembodied voice spoke to him, I’m Dr. Cullen; you’ve had an accident and are now at St. John’s Hospital. Nothing too serious now that you’re awake. How do you feel?

Flaherty, only half hearing the voice tried desperately to focus on Kerry’s face. I’m sorry honey, he began, but—

Don’t talk about it; the doctor wants to know how you feel.

As Kerry moved away from the bed to make way for the doctor, her shadowy shape disappeared completely from Sandy’s vision. As Dr. Cullen took his wrist, his white coat was barely distinguishable in surroundings that seemed a strange and misty gray. Dr. Cullen swung a metallic third eye down from his forehead, and a beam of light seemed to come from his finger. With rising uneasiness, Flaherty told the doctor that everything seemed blurred, and turned his head to find Kerry whom he could not quite see; but as he called her, she appeared out of the gloom.

Mr. Lee and Saul were here earlier, and they’ll be back tonight. The children are fine, but worried about you. I didn’t let them see the picture of the car in the papers, but I think they would see you for themselves when you feel up to it.

Flaherty nodded and asked, How badly am I hurt?

Dr. Cullen broke in saying, You’re cut and bruised with a few assorted swellings. You have a small, depressed skull fracture, and the best thing for you now is sleep. As Flaherty looked vainly for Kerry in the darkening mist, Dr. Cullen gave him a sedative injection, and he slipped back to the depths from which he had come.

Kerry, with a look of relief, punctuated with a tiny grin, said, Well, I’m glad that is over. He’s out of the woods now, isn’t he doctor?

The answering grunt from Dr. Cullen was not reassuring, and her grin slipped slowly away, as she followed him from the room.

He is all right, isn’t—?" Kerry stopped as she saw Lee and Saul step from the elevator, and race walk toward them.

‘We heard he’s awake, exhaled Lee, May I see him?"

I put him under, replied Dr. Cullen, he needs all the rest he can get.

He talked and he recognized me, reported Kerry, but— and again she studied the doctor’s face for a clue.

Let’s go to the waiting room, Dr. Cullen suggested. It’s too early for visitors.

Lee’s courtroom experience had sharpened his eyes and ears, and his ability to judge the meaning of another’s words through their tone, as much as through the words themselves. Inwardly preparing for tragedy, he inhaled, and sat next to Kerry as Dr. Cullen began; I don’t want to alarm you unduly, and its still too early to tell, but the skull fracture may have caused more damage than we at first suspected. Quite frequently, in skull fractures, there is internal injury to a part of the brain, the results of which do not become apparent for several days.

In Flaherty’s case, you will recall that he complained of blurred vision. He held up his hand to stop Lee’s protest. Of course, this is common in head injuries, but my examination of his eyes, and their reaction to light, lead me to suspect that there may be some damage to the optic nerve. He turned to Lee, I would like to call in Dr. Raphael Koff who is the best ophthalmologist in the country, and who practices locally.

You see, Dr. Cullen continued, the optic nerve is surrounded and protected by the brain. But a severe blow on the head can cause a small brain hemorrhage, or even a complete severance of the optic nerve. Since he has sight, the nerve is not severed. However, if the hemorrhage continues, the optic nerve may disintegrate, and he would be blind for life. Again, let me emphasize that I don’t know this to be the case, but I do feel that a specialist is needed, and at once.

Lee glanced at Kerry, and, as she nodded to him, he said, Get Dr. Koff, and as many others as are needed. You have carte blanche to hire as many specialists as he can use.

Dr. Cullen nodded and said, I’ll get him here as soon as possible, and we can talk again tomorrow morning, by which time Mr. Flaherty will be awake, and able to help us decide what is wrong. He gave the frozen figure of Kerry a reassuring smile, and suggested that there was little more they could do now.

Taking the hint, Kerry left for her hillside home overlooking the San Fernando Valley, and Lee headed for the tree lined streets of Beverly Hills. Each was accompanied by the gloom that mesmerized them, despite the balmy August breeze, and their pleasant destinations.

In the brilliantly lighted hospital, Life and Death sat down to their nightly poker game, with Fate taking the only other hand.

CHAPTER 4

A s Kerry entered the hospital the next morning after a sleepless night, she found Lee waiting for her in the main floor building with a young man she recognized, but could not immediately find a name for. As she forced a smile and approached, Lee told her that Drs. Cullen and Koff had been busy examining Sandy for more than an hour, and suggested that they all wait for the results.

Lee then introduced the young man, saying, You remember Chuck O’Brien, of course. Saul had to supervise some work I am having done on the house, and so I asked Chuck to drive me.

Although she had seen him only once or twice, she recognized the name from conversations with Sandy about Lee’s new law clerk, and smiled at the shy young man who was trying to bow from the neck upwards.

Each year, from numerous applications, Harold Lee chose a law student about to enter his senior year at Lee’s alma mater, and gave him the benefit of working with the firm’s attorneys. The law student chosen helped in preparation of cases for trial, interviewing witnesses, and most importantly, sitting in court during trial ready to act as messenger, maker of phone calls, or diplomat keeping relatives of the client from driving the trial attorney crazy.

Chuck O’Brien had been the choice of the current year, and Kerry knew that Sandy was very fond of him. Chuck had assisted Sandy in the trial of Jake Shoey, and they had become very good friends during this ordeal.

Intuitively realizing that Lee was turning the conversation over to him, Chuck asked about the children. They were thus occupied by small talk until noon when Dr. Cullen and another man emerged from the elevator.

Lee arose attracting their attention. Dr. Cullen introduced his companion as Dr. Raphael Koff, and suggested lunch in the hospital coffee shop.

The general noon hour melee of doctors and nurses garbed in shining white, was interspersed with doctors dressed from head to foot in the repugnant shade of green halfway between Kelly and olive. The latter color seemed to impart a flat tastelessness to the food. They ate in silence, sullenly obeying the mores of social politeness, and temporarily satisfying themselves with Dr. Cullen’s assurances that Sandy was much improved.

Barely had they finished, when Dr. Cullen handed off the medical wand to his companion, saying, Dr. Koff is the eye specialist I told you about last night. He and I have been working on Sandy since early this morning, and I’ll let him tell you of our conclusions.

The dapper, dark-haired figure of Dr. Koff, who did not wear glasses, leaned forward in his chair, as though inviting them to share confidential information. Shifting his gaze between Lee and Kerry, he began in a quiet voice that bespoke of competence and experience.

As Dr. Cullen told you, irregularities in sight such as those experienced by Mr. Flaherty are quite common in cases of severe concussion or skull fracture. However, the degree of sight which the patient describes, and his description of the hazy fog which causes it, give rise to the probability of their being some involvement of the optic nerve. Taking a paper napkin and a pen, Dr. Koff quickly drew a large figure eight with an open base. He then drew in two circles instead of closing the base. These, he said, are the eyes. We are looking into the brain from the top of the skull. The rest of the figure eight is the optic nerve. As you can see, the nerve runs from each eye, crosses over itself, and then finishes the small loop of the eight in the back of the skull. Actually the nerve is not exposed, but is hidden from view by the tissues of the brain. Now, he continued, placing the point of the pen midway up one side of the large loop, here on the outside of the skull is where the patient suffered the fracture. The skull was indented and splintered. It is, of course, now repaired. But if the blow, or a splinter, caused an abrasion to the optic nerve, and with the abrasion came hemorrhage, the blood would cause pressure on the nerve and interfere with sight. If the hemorrhage is slight, the blood will be rapidly assimilated, and sight restored. But if the hemorrhage is major, he would rapidly show objective symptoms which. he hastened to add, he has not. Therefore we are faced with either a light hemorrhage which has stopped and will clear, or the remaining possibility of a tear in the optic nerve with slight but steady bleeding. Here is the danger, for even a slight tear in the nerve can result in atrophy, a shrinking of the optic nerve, and eventual death of the nerve with loss of sight for good. There is but one way to tell for certain, and that is to enter the skull and see for ourselves. Dr. Koff paused, glanced at Dr. Cullen for permission, and then asked, Are there any questions?"

Lee glanced at Kerry, who managed to stammer, B-but isn’t a brain operation very dangerous?

In this case, yes, agreed Dr. Koff, since the nerve is not exposed for repair. We would have to expose it by separating the very delicate adjoining parts of the brain with the ever present danger of substituting a greater injury for the one we are seeking to repair.

Lee broke in with, Are you even sure the optic nerve is injured?

No, replied Dr. Koff. It is impossible to tell without operating. However, the objective symptoms, in my opinion, indicate nerve damage, but I cannot say how serious or permanent."

Let me ask you this, continued Lee, if you operate, will you be able to repair the nerve regardless of the degree of injury?

Dr. Koff took his time, carefully considering his answer, and finally said, With absolute certainty, all I can do is stop the bleeding and remove the blood clot. If the nerve is torn to any appreciable degree, in all probability atrophy has already set in, and the possibility of a successful repair would depend on the severity of the original damage, and how far atrophy has progressed.

As Lee lapsed into uncomfortable silence, Kerry asked, If you do operate, what are the chances of Sandy escaping brain damage?

In my opinion, less than 50-50, replied Dr. Koff, any time you surgically touch the brain, there is a good chance of some damage, however slight. In this case, the chances of damage depend entirely on the extent of the injury.

He turned again to Lee, who said, Then to boil it down, if we don’t operate, we either have a complete recovery or blindness; and if we do operate, there is a good chance of brain damage, and the possibility that you couldn’t repair the optic nerve anyway.

The two doctors exchanged thoughtful looks, and Dr. Koff replied, That may be an oversimplification, but you have stated the essentials of the problem.

Have you discussed this with Sandy, asked Kerry?

"No, I wanted to familiarize you with the situation first. Now we’ll talk to Mr. Flaherty. As in a funeral procession, with Chuck bringing up the rear, they followed the white-coated figures toward the elevator.

What do you think, Lee? Kerry intoned plaintively.

If he asks my opinion, I’m going to tell him to refuse the operation and take his chances. The operation may not help, and will almost surely cause some degree of damage.

Silently now, the group made its way to Sandy’s room, from which dashed a blushing nurse’s aide, who fled after one glance at the stern countenances of the two doctors.

He’s better, wryly commented Lee.

Sandy, his bare torso and face plastered with slashes of white tape and bandages, turned his head toward the noise of their entrance. But neither his squint, nor his full powers of concentration, did anything to dispel the gradually thickening fog that now covered his visual world. He could just distinguish Kerry’s shape as she quickly went to his side and lightly kissed him.

Now, that’s not my nurse, he said lightly; and who’s that with you?

It’s me, or rather I, you incorrigible lecher, answered Lee in his most severe tone of voice. And, continued Lee, the lawyer I’ve hired to take your place.

Chuck, why aren’t you in school?

After winning that murder case, what can school teach me? the boy rejoined, the misery in his face giving the lie to his attempt at cheerfulness.

And the other two, continued Sandy, counting the shapes that seemed to float to his bedside, have to be those two doctors I promised to defend the next time they’re arrested for abortion. Alerted by the lack of response, and the ensuing silence, that this was more than a mere social visit, he asked, So what’s the verdict?

Dr. Koff repeated almost verbatim the lecture he had delivered to the others, adding to it the answers he had given to the questions asked by Lee and Kerry. The decision is yours, he concluded.

Sandy’s laugh was strangely out of place, as he said, Some decision! Blindness against the possibility of blindness plus some brain damage that might convert me into more of an idiot than I already am. No. he said, his face grim, and his grip hurting Kerry’s hand, I won’t give you the chance to open my head and find out what some already suspect, that a vacuum can support life—I’ll take my chances."

In the silence that fell, Dr. Koff opened his mouth to speak, and then thought better of it, and remained silent as the rest.

By way of adding an exclamation point to the finality of his decision, Sandy turned toward the direction he had last heard from Chuck and said, Do you think you could bring my mail and Miss Fitz tomorrow, so I could get some work done? My future clients tell me I’ll be here for another week or so, unless I’m evicted for contributing to the moral delinquency of the student nursing staff.

Only Kerry really understood the deep fear that hid behind the pose of levity and courage which her husband was attempting to project.

Glancing at Lee, and with his slight nod as authority, Chuck told Sandy that he and Fitz would be back tomorrow at noon.

Doctors Cullen and Koff took their leave, and found that neither could say that Sandy’s decision was unreasonable.

Shortly afterwards, a grim faced Lee, closely followed by Chuck, added their good-byes and, each preoccupied with his own thoughts, spoke not a word all the way back to the office.

Alone, Kerry patiently listened to Sandy’s latest promise that alcohol would no longer be a part of his life. With brimming eyes, she sat by the bed holding and caressing his hand, as he went on to paint word pictures of the bright future he still could and would give her and the children.

As the sun dropped lower in the sky, Sandy drifted off to sleep, and the venetian blinds formed shadow bars over his bed. Kerry softly disengaged her hand from his, and fled weeping from the room.

CHAPTER 5

In two weeks, Sandy Flaherty became totally blind. Each morning the haze surrounding his vision had darkened, and the shapes of objects and persons gradually melted into the all-encompassing dark cloud that threatened to suffocate him. He knew before Dr. Koff told him at the end of the first week that there was no hope for his sight. At first he was tortured by doubts concerning his decision not to have the operation, but he felt strangely at peace when Dr. Koff assured him that the operation would have been of no avail, because the rapidity of the sight loss was strongly indicative of an irreparable injury to the optic nerve.

While thought of living in a sightless world frightened and depressed him, Sandy concentrated all of his efforts to conceal his true feelings from Kerry, Lee and all the hospital staff. With the exception of Kerry, all attributed Sandy’s good humor to extreme courage and stability. Only Kerry, with fifteen years of marriage with Sandy as her guide, knew the extreme depths of self-pity to which Sandy could commit himself.

The only sign that something was wrong, was Sandy’s refusal to accept sympathy, labeling it pity and refusing to hear it. He made a game of soliciting admiration for his stoic courage, and played this part to the hilt. Finally even this ego feeding activity paled beside the enormity of his handicap, and he began to feel panic, and with it a desire to get back to his mountain top home, and freedom to express his true feelings.

Before he could leave the hospital, the problems of blindness as it affected his practice of law became apparent, and a new feeling of helplessness and hopelessness engulfed him and seemed to build an insurmountable barrier to any type of normal professional activity. Thus deprived, at least in his own mind, of any chance of a livable or useful life, he succeeded in abolishing all feelings of guilt concerning his drinking. He began to picture a future of years of pleasurable wallowing in an internal bath of alcohol, free from guilt, free from blame for his accident, and free from the unwelcome responsibility of the normal problems of life. He could hardly wait to get home and begin this new sinecure.

Kerry, with the advice of Drs. Cullen and Koff, assembled some of the equipment that would make Sandy’s new life easier; a white cane, a bell to summon help, pads to place on sharp corners around the house, and a number of plastic glasses and dishes that would not break when knocked over.

Unbeknown to Sandy, and on the advice of Dr. Koff, Kerry attended a class dealing with the care of the blind, and the psychology of rehabilitation to be utilized by herself and the twins. Although barely five years old, they were instructed at length as to their behavior.

During Sandy’s hospitalization, Harold Lee personally reviewed all of his cases, laboriously prepared lists of steps that had to be taken, and periodic reminders for the future. He arranged with Chuck and Fitz, his own personal secretary, for the two to visit Sandy’s home for dictation, and pick up of papers to be served or filed with the court.

While his family and professional associates were thus employed, Sandy practiced walks around his hospital room, and then up and down the hallway. He gradually regained his sense of balance, and sharpened his senses of touch and hearing.

The day of departure finally arrived, and, much as a Broadway star after a long and successful run, Sandy took his leave of the admiring hospital staff. Even to the always cynical Saul, the Flaherty bravery flew like a flag from the highest point in the land. Blindness had not otherwise marred his clear, piercing green eyes, and he made a handsome sight to the gathering of nurses as he sprang from the wheel chair, and paused to wave in their direction before entering Lee’s Cadillac. Later, Kerry would come to realize that the expression marking Sandy’s countenance at that moment was not a brave smile, but a wide grin at the world from which he had just resigned.

The usual small talk shortened the journey to the Flaherty home, and after a tearful, tumultuous reception by the twins, Lee, Saul and Chuck left. As it had been six weeks since Sandy had been home, his first attempts to find his way around the house were clumsy, and were only saved from total disaster by the padding Kerry had installed.

Kerry had first pleaded, then insisted, then demanded that Sandy go to bed and get the rest he refused to acknowledge that he needed. Finally, after her threat to call Dr. Cullen, Sandy allowed himself to be put to bed. He imposed one final condition, the terms of which filled Kerry’s chest with crushed ice: one drink, just to relax from all the excitement.

CHAPTER 6

For Sandy’s use, Kerry had set aside a guest room which she had remodeled. It contained a minimum amount of furniture for Sandy to bump into, but could yet be used by him as an office. She also installed a complete stereo system, and easy to use album racks so that he could relax during or after working. She had hoped Sandy’s use of this sanctum sanctorum would restore his feeling of independence which the loss of his sight had so severely eroded.

Instead of using it as an office, Sandy moved into the room, and made generous use of the outside door which gave easy and direct access to the delivery man from the liquor store. He then barred everyone from this speakeasy, except Kerry, Chuck, and occasionally Fitz for dictation. Unaffected by light changes, Sandy neither cared for, nor observed, normal day and night hours, and the booming stereo could be heard at any time of the day or night.

As Flaherty slid faster and further down the path of self-destruction, it became impossible for Fitz to schedule an appointment during a sober interval, and Lee began referring all of Sandy’s cases to associates in the firm. Chuck, who lived in the San Fernando Valley, still dropped by two or three times a week, mainly to talk to Kerry and help around the house.

Saul, realizing that worry over Sandy was eating away at Lee like a cancer, tried to force Lee to do something to resolve the situation by sardonic comments that Lee was still supporting Flaherty and the liquor industry. Finally, under prodding by Fitz and Saul, Lee decided to act, and Kerry provided the occasion by inviting Lee, Saul, and Chuck and his date to Christmas eve dinner.

As Lee and Saul crested the top of the Flaherty driveway, the stark branches of the sycamore trees were like skeleton fingers into the blue California sky, and reminded them of life’s beauties and tragedies side by side.

After greetings by Kerry, Saul and Lee seated themselves on the couch in the Irish lace-curtain living room, and took in the brick fireplace with pictures on the mantle of happier days. Chuck made the drinks: Perrier water for Lee, Old Grand-Dad on the rocks for Saul, and Almaden Chardonnay for Kerry and his date. They began to talk about the D.A. and his long lunches. Kerry, with a silent prayer on her lips, went to tell Sandy of their arrival. She knew, from frequent visits to his lair, that Sandy had not been drinking as much as usual that day, and knew as well that Lee’s prospective presence was the only reason.

In the twilight, she located Sandy seated behind his desk, head bowed in his hands. They’re here now dear, then in an attempt to shake his mood, everyone’s having a drink, and talking about the D.A.’s two hour lunches at Rusty’s. Sandy grunted, and with an effort stood swaying and trying to get his balance. He took a deep breath, Well, here goes nothing, he said, and with more confidence than he felt, walked to the living room without assistance.

If Lee had felt any lingering doubts as to the necessity for taking action against Sandy’s drunken apathy, the appearance of his former protégé banished them. The change was worse than Fitz and Chuck had led him to expect. Despite his fresh, close-cropped haircut, it was apparent that Sandy’s hair was mostly gray. The chalky color of his hair differed only by a shade from the lifeless gray, puffy flesh of his face. The only color relief came from the black pouches under his red-rimmed eyes. The obviously forced sincerity of his welcome merely accented the horse, whiskey voice with which he greeted them. The once athletic figure appeared almost skeletal in the recently purchased, but already hanging clothes. His swollen nose broadcast the first signs of the ruptured capillaries which would soon spread over the rest of his face, branding Sandy irrevocably as the drunk he had become.

Chuck broke into the shocked silence with a string of inconsequential observations as Sandy, hands outstretched, found his chair. Chuck brought Sandy a Grand-Dad and water, and gradually the conversation assumed a normal level. Even Lee gradually relaxed as Sandy remained fairly sober, drinking his drink slowly, and carrying his share of the conversation. In this relaxed mood, everyone enjoyed Kerry’s baked ham dinner, and she blossomed under the flattery she received for it.

After dinner, Kerry and Chuck set about cleaning up, and taking the dishes into the kitchen. Sandy, Saul and Lee returned to the living room, where Saul, at Kerry’s suggestion, poured Courvoisier brandy into snifters for them. For a time they savored the brandy and meal they had eaten, and then with a sigh, Lee said, Let’s go to your office Sandy, I want to have a private talk.

This is Christmas eve boss, can’t it wait?

Lee rose quickly, and Sandy’s unseeing eyes followed the sound. Much to my eternal shame, it’s already waited too long. Will you lead the way?"

Saul thoughtfully decapitated a new cigar, lit it, and strode into the kitchen with a grin on his face.

CHAPTER 7

Sandy sat carefully on the divan that doubled as a bed, and with his ears followed Lee’s closing of the door, and the squeaking descent of Lee’s body in the swivel chair behind the desk. A click reminded him that Lee could not see in the dark. Full of resigned apprehension he waited for the executioner’s ax to fall.

Well, Sandy, came the crystal hard voice, what are your plans?

As soon as the doctor gives his okay, said Sandy, clearing his throat nervously, I’m going through seeing eye dog training, and then, he laughed in a sickly fashion, I’ll be back to the office. There was a silence.

You haven’t seen a doctor in six weeks, snorted Lee, and the only one you’ve needed in the last two months is a liver specialist. Lee paused, as Sandy did not reply. I suppose you think I’ll continue to pay the freight indefinitely. Sandy’s head snapped up, but before he could speak, Lee continued, While this might not be the proper season to remind you, Santa Claus is a figment of the imagination. You know, most of what’s wrong with you is my fault. I blamed myself when you took that drunken dive into the canyon; I blamed myself for not calling you on your boozing when it first got out of hand. I thought you were man enough to get over it on your own, but you weren’t.

Sandy broke in with, I promise…

Lee cut him off, saying, "When a criminal lawyer becomes successful, and has won some newsworthy acquittals, his head gets so big he thinks he needs a lot of liquor to fill the extra space. But after a while the real man takes over again, and the hooch takes a back seat. In your case, I ignored the people who told me what was happening—Pat Fanning, Saul, Fitz, and various judges and lawyers all told me your drinking was out of control, but I ignored them, because I considered you the son